


you're direct as a detour

by fab_ia



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: M/M, Second person POV, inspired by smth i wrote almost 3 years ago, more kepler introspection, one-sided conversations, unrequited feelings sort of kind of its complicated, yes its as soft as it can be while still kinda canon compliant, yes this is kepcobi in 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24100855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fab_ia/pseuds/fab_ia
Summary: "you have a reason for it, you tell yourself, that isn’t just affection."(an almost-letter, or thoughts in the general direction of another)
Relationships: Daniel Jacobi/Warren Kepler
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31





	you're direct as a detour

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [keep your pretty mouth shut](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11808669) by [fab_ia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fab_ia/pseuds/fab_ia). 



you call him silvertongue in your mind, silently and to yourself. you have a reason for it, you tell yourself, that isn’t just affection. it’s because although he might be one of the worst actors you’ve had the misfortune to associate with and his voice might not be smooth and silky - it might not be soothing or comforting, by any stretch of the word - but his lies are spun so carefully you can barely find the threads of his tapestry, you can hardly pick them apart unless you know exactly where to look to find the spots with the microscopic faults. he weaves beautifully, artistically, and you almost admire it. certainly, you respect it, because dishonesty is valuable in your work. 

there are countless other things you call him, and none of them are spoken aloud besides those that could be misconstrued as insults. you say _bastard_ and you mean _sweetheart_ , you say _you’re a nightmare, you’re an idiot_ , when you want to wax poetic about the lingering taste of cherries on his lips as you press him back-and-down into your mattress, the deep-moss colour of his eyes and the way they remind you of a forest, of a garden, when they catch the golden light in _just_ the right way. if he’s lucky, you’ll tell him he’s beautiful, and he’ll furrow his brows and curl his lip and tell you that you’re getting sentimental in your old age even though he knows damn well the gap between you is barely five years.

he is, though. beautiful, in a visceral, vicious way, scars marring his skin and leaving it littered with lines and misshapen forms. you call him a shrinking violet when you run your fingertips over his bruises and he scoffs, pushes you away and turns a page in the book he’s holding but doesn’t bother to hide the smile that’s made its way onto his face.

it’s dangerous, what you’re doing, treading the tightrope between affection and necessary devotion. are you making him _too_ loyal to you in a way that’ll leave him flailing when your heart eventually stops with lead spearing the muscle? is he, perhaps, the one playing _you_ , is he toying with you and making you believe the lies, fall headfirst into his latest masterpiece of falsehoods?

still. here you are. the clock ticks over to four-eighteen and you glance at him where he’s under your sheets and shirtless, vulnerable and still a weapon. you’re sat with your back against the door that leads to the hall, exhaustion giving way to the point where you’re almost wide awake as the sun begins to threaten its appearance through the thin curtains that hang in the window and cover the glass, that provide some semblance of privacy although you know, in your heart, that everything is monitored and watched.

his chest rises, falls. it’s steady and rhythmic and you watch the slow expansion of his ribs and curl your hand into a loose fist, imagine a weight there, the chill of metal against your too-warm flesh. it would be easy, in some ways, for all the uncertainty to end. obscenely complicated in others. blood stains cotton terribly and won’t wash out ever, the paperwork will form snow-white mountains on the old wood of the desk and, well, you don’t know that you’ll find someone quite so interesting as him anytime soon, or at least not one so easily tempted into the fray with promises of belonging and any kind of carnage his blackened, twisted, monstrous little heart could ever desire. 

perhaps you should remind him how painfully insignificant he is, though, at least in the grand scheme of things. you’re sure he’d get a kick out of that. after all, it’s nothing he hasn’t been told countless times before, it isn’t as though he hasn’t formed it into his own mantra that burns its way through his mind. it isn’t as though he would be able to tell you’re lying, that he’s important to you in ways you hardly dare actually think about.

_do you remember saying you loved me_ , you think to yourself, because those are words you’re too cowardly to ever let cross the fragile threshold of your lips. _do you remember, daniel, do you think about it every day? does it make you feel sick every time you recall it? do you remember, do you remember, do you remember what you did?_

because he didn’t say it in so many words, he would never be able to face that kind of vulnerability, but sometimes words that don’t make it out into the world are the ones that resonate the most, they’re the ones that leave your chest wrenching and aching and feeling so goddamn raw that you can’t even watch the man sleep and pretend you need to be able to see him properly to know the way his hair curls at the very bottom when he’s in need of a haircut. no. no, no, he never said it in so many words, but you know it’s there, you can tell. you need it to be there because, otherwise, where does it leave you?

you don’t feel that way. you don’t. never have, never will, can’t, feelings torn out of you by carefully-shaped nails and the wound cauterised while still streaming scarlet down your once-neat button-down, looking up into a smiling face and forcing a reflection of it onto your own features as you sign away humanity in ballpoint pen, ink still drying as he eyes up the paper and tells you that you’re free to go.

four-thirty-one. your fist is still clenched, so you let go of the imaginary weapon, envision the sharp edge melting away into the shadows that litter your bedroom like the memories that clutter the corners of your mind. in the bed, daniel is snoring, somewhat, sounds sometimes shaped into speech as your pillow leeches the scent of his shampoo and clings to it, leaving you a reminder that’s going to ache like hell when you catch the smell as you roll over when he leaves. and really, what the fuck does it say that you know that even know, him unconscious and you trying to numb every single millimetre of the temporal _fucking_ lobe because you, warren, you don’t ache when you remember his presence, you don’t miss him, you’ve never once missed him.

he looks gentle, you think. almost normal, as though either of you have ever lived on the shoreline of that particular sensation, as though if you tried hard enough you could imagine that the two of you are any ordinary person muddling through their existence. you could play living life in the same vein as your neighbors, you can play house and act out something that approaches a relationship.

the word sticks to your mind. molasses. thick tar, fixed there. you dig your nails into your bare knee and imagine peeling it away. it tears and leaves half the letters there, enough that you can still read it, so you press the heels of the palms to your eyes instead as a distraction.

in the bed, he sleeps. on the floor, carpet scratchy against your bare skin, you stare at him while pretending you’re looking anywhere else at all. stupid. idiot. you don’t know if you’re referring to him or yourself, but the point stands and sticks and remains.

you hate him for leaving you like this, weak and rough-edged and raw and so desperately wanting. you glare at his back, at the curve of his spine, the way his skin disappears beneath the cover and lifts it with each of his slow breaths.

_fuck you_ , you whisper, _fuck you, daniel_. the words barely forming and never truly making their way out of your dry, crackly throat. you half-hope that he hears them anyway, that he knows and understands that, more than anything, you hate him.

daniel says nothing. when you finally make your way to bed and get your few, much-needed hours of sleep, you dream of cherries and gunpowder and a hand that burns your skin at every point of contact.

**Author's Note:**

> title from 'a brief attachment' by cate marvin: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/58820/a-brief-attachment
> 
> on tumblr: @sciencematter
> 
> writing blog: https://knewtonn.blogspot.com/


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